


warmth

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [131]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, this is v soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22072774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: the origins of the infamous parka
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [131]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Kudos: 44





	warmth

**Author's Note:**

> [drsarah1281](https://drsarah1281.tumblr.com/) asked: ""I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you. I can think up some clever lines, if you'd prefer. But I wanted to say that, first.""

Anchorage in the winter is bitterly cold; even moreso with the post-Tresspasser nuclear winters. The cold permeates everything, piercing like knives. Even the other members of the K-Sciences division are feeling it through their many layers—and Hermann, who has always gotten cold far easier than anyone he knows, has been feeling it doubly.

His first course of action, like his colleagues, is _layers_ —as many as physically possible. Undershirt and underarmour shirt and then a shirt over than and then a button-up and vest and blazer and on the very top, the thickest parka he can get his hands on, and still, he spends his days shivering miserably; hands shaking so hard that he can barely write.

It’s Stevenson who notices it first; she’s the most perceptive, but then, it hardly requires a _genius_ to figure out that one _shivers_ because they are _cold._ She approaches him after-hours bearing a mug of hot tea.

“Thank you,” Hermann mutters, taking it from her. “What can I do for you? If this is about the reports—”

She shakes her head. “It’s not about work, Gottlieb,” she says, “it’s about _you._ You’re barely getting any work done with the cold.”

Hermann flushes; clenches and unclenches his hands around the mug. “I’m working on it, sir,” he says, stiffly, “don’t worry—I’ll be back to my usual productivity soon.”

The other frowns at him. “It’s _not_ about work, Gottlieb,” she says, again, “I'm— _we_ are worried about you. You’re going to catch your death in this place, and that’s not something _any_ of us would wish on you. Plus, if you get sick, we probably will too.”

“Dr. Geiszler would,” Hermann points out, and then bites his tongue when he realises what he’s said; watches the other’s brow raise.

“…I didn’t say anything about Geiszler,” she says.

“Well we both know he _would,_ ” Hermann says, because at this point there’s no point in trying to deflect. “But—don’t worry, sir. I’ll…” he pauses; purses his lips. “I’ll…take a sick-leave if I feel that I’m getting ill.”

She nods; satisfaction. “Good. And consider investing in a pair of gloves or a scarf or something—just looking at you is making me cold.”

* * *

He doesn’t get sick.

He does, however, get trapped in the lab with Geiszler after-hours, which is, arguably, worse; the other is an arrogant arsehole—and, worse, an _intelligent_ one, at that; and Geiszler makes sure everyone knows it. If he weren’t, quite literally, the foremost scientist in his field, the PPDC would have fired him long ago.

Hermann’s just come down to retrieve some papers—the only printer suited to his needs is located in the xenobiology lab, for reasons he can’t fathom; it’s late—he’s the last of the maths division still up, to his knowledge, and he expects the xeno lab to be deserted.

And at first, it seems to be.

It’s _not_ deserted, as Hermann realises, mere minutes later, when there’s the sound of glass shattering on the ground, a high voice yelling “ _FUCK!_ ”, the blaring sound of the quarantine alarm, and the horrible feeling of his socks getting wet. When he looks down, he finds his shoes have sort of— _melted_ onto his feet.

“Oh, God,” he says, faintly, and grips his cane; tight.

There’s the sound of footsteps, and then his shoes are being— _washed off._

“Sorry, sorry—”

Hermann raises his gaze to meet the offending party’s. “ _Geiszler,_ ” he hisses, eyes narrowed, and his lip twitches. “I cannot _believe_ you—”

“It’s not going to kill you!” the other exclaims, “stop whining and step out of the puddle. Oh stop glaring at me—you can get another pair of shoes.”

“ _You ruined my single pair of winter boots!_ ” Hermann shouts, and he strides forward, face dangerously close to the other’s; raises his hand to poke the other’s chest sharply with his index finger. “Do _not_ tell me to _calm down_ you _irresponsible_ little _cretin_ of a man!”

“I’m was trying to help you!” Geiszler shouts back, and sets the pitcher of water down on the table by him; the force of the plastic pitcher making it clang against the table dully.

“Well then _stop!_ ” Hermann cries.

“Fine!” Geiszler retorts and returns to his desk to skulk, leaving Hermann standing barefoot in the melted puddle of his shoes, his pants soaked up to the knees.

It takes two minutes to realise that, with the quarantine, he’s trapped in here for the next hour—well, now, fifty-eight minutes—with Geiszler.

It takes him about two seconds after that to start shivering violently, teeth chattering.

Damnit, he should have worn his parka instead of deluding himself with the notion that he would be just fine with an extra sweater.

He sighs and takes a seat. There’s no point in putting extra stress on his leg, especially when he’s already very stressed as is—the pain from being cold, and _standing_ for long periods while cold is the _last_ thing he wants right now.

He wraps an arm around himself in a vain attempt to try and keep warm.

There’s a cough. “Uh…Her—Gottlieb?”

Geiszler. He doesn’t even have the energy to give the other the glare he deserves. “What.”

“You can have my jacket,” Geiszler says, not meeting his gaze, and thrusts a thick, fur-hooded parka on him, “your lips are blue and they _will_ fire me if you wind up with hypothermia because of this.”

Hermann blinks at him; opens his mouth to speak, but Geiszler has already turned away and gone back to his own desk. Hermann scowls weakly at his retreating form but pulls the coat on, warmth the likes of which he hasn’t felt in _ages_ settling over his skin moments later.

The next day, he tries to return the coat. Geiszler refuses to let him even finish his sentence. “Keep it,” he says, “you probably poisoned it or something. There’s no way I’m taking it back now.”

* * *

Seven years later, a continent away, and with most of their personnel and funding gone, they win the war.

Geiszler—Newton, now, and, God, when did that happen? He can’t remember—nearly dies Drifting with a kaiju brain; and then they _both_ very nearly pass out from Drifting with _another_ kaiju brain, this time together—to lighten the load, Hermann blusters, hoping that the other will chalk the ruddiness of his cheeks up to the cold sting of the howling wind rather than—something _else._

And then they’re racing through the corridors of the Shatterdome, and then they’re watching as Mako and Ranger Beckett’s vitals both blink on screen and they’ve done it. They’ve won.

Hermann lets out a shaky breath; eyes fluttering shut with relief.

By his side, Newton wobbles, and Hermann remembers that he’s been awake for far longer than is probably healthy. “We ought to go to medical,” he murmurs, and, for once, Newton doesn’t make any protest; just lets Hermann steer him towards the medical wing and sits sedately as the doctors check them both over.

In the end, they’re told they’re to stay in the medical wing for the night. Neither of them has the energy to complain at that—but when someone suggests they perhaps let go of each other and lay down in separate beds, Newton makes a strangled sound and Hermann’s grip on him tightens.

“That is— _not_ what we will be doing,” he says, stiffly; glares until the doctor backs down and says something about finding a bigger bed.

“Thanks,” Newton murmurs, later, when the lights have been turned out and they’re laying side by side in a larger-than-average cot. “I know you probably don’t really want to but—thanks.”

“Shut up,” Hermann says, too tired to think up anything more witty. “And don’t assume anything of me, dear.”

“Dear?” Newton says, and Hermann can feel, if not see, the raised brow.

There’s a pause, and Newton shifts to fix his gaze with Hermann’s. “Hermann. What do you mean, ‘dear’?”

“It means you’re dear to me,” Hermann says; for once, not hiding behind half-said things and assumptions. “I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you. I can think up some clever lines, if you’d prefer. But I wanted to say that, first.”

Newton blinks at him; silent, and then: “C'mere.”

“I’m laying _right_ next to you,” Hermann points out, but he shifts a bit so he’s on his side, his face is closer to Newton’s. The other’s hand is gentle on his cheek. “I take it that means you’re amenable.”

“Yeah,” Newton says, and there’s a hint of a smile.

Hermann kisses him; inelegant; and then, again, and again; chaste, but, well—they’re both very, very tired. “I’m usually better at this,” he says, half apologetic, when he finally pulls away.

“That’s okay,” Newton says, “you can keep trying however many times you want to until you get it perfect.”

Hermann smiles. “That’s a very nice thought,” he says, softly, and takes Newton’s hand in his.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
